


I thought it less like a lake

by runphoebe



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hair Washing, Happy Ending, Internalized Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Rimming, Shaving, Size Kink, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runphoebe/pseuds/runphoebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Kent likes the difference between their bodies. He likes being shorter than Jack because he can curl comfortably under the weight of Jack’s arm across his shoulders when they stand next to each other, and he likes that Jack’s body on top of his is enough to hold him down and keep him there if Jack doesn’t want him to move. He likes that Jack has big, strong hands and big, thick fingers. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Aces get knocked out of the playoffs and Kent Parson is having feelings about it. Jack Zimmermann is having feelings about <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I thought it less like a lake

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine sinking into an inescapable Jack/Kent hellscape for nearly an entire day only to emerge and realize it's only 4000 words ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> There's something wrong with me. Read the end notes for warnings, because this fic has a few. 
> 
> This is a world where Kent's appearance at EpiKegster was a lot lot different and Jack ended up signing with the Aces . Sorry. I also have a really bizarre headcanon for Kent and Jack that after Jack's gone to Samwell and mellowed out just a bit, Kent is the one left with major anxiety when it comes to hockey and Jack, so this is probably a bit of a role reversal on the usual dynamic between them in fics. 
> 
> This is LAUGHABLY unbetad and unedited so please do point out typos/errors.

They get swept by Dallas in the WCF, their third period rally in game four not quite enough to overcome a slew of injuries and sloppy, sloppy penalties that keep them on the kill for what feels like the whole series. It’s not Kent’s shortest post-season, but it’s not his longest either and it fucking sucked to watch the crowd trickle out of his own arena, disappointed and frustrated and making noise about whether Kent’s goal scoring is really worth the massive cap hit. It especially fucking sucked to do it with Jack at his side, on his fucking line for the first time since they were teenagers and feeling that chemistry, having more fun playing hockey than he had since the Q and knowing that it still wasn’t enough.

He remembers a lot of whispered conversations tucked between the worn sheets on Jack’s bed at the Haus in those last few months before Jack’s graduation, and promises that they’d be hoisting the Cup together if Jack came to Vegas, sappy and grossly sweet and punctuated by the slowest, most mind-blowing sex.

He’s already at Jack’s condo when Jack gets back from his exit interview, curled up on the couch with Kit since they’ve both basically been living with Jack full time for the past six months. Kent didn’t see a point in pretending that either of them wanted to take things slowly, even if he did hold on to his own apartment to keep up appearances.

Jack drops his bag on the floor and wanders over to the couch, crouching down in front of Kent and rubbing his thumb across Kent’s cheek.

“That was pretty brutal,” Jack says quietly. He looks as handsome and put together as ever, biceps flexing in his suit jacket and the seams of his pants straining against the bulk of his thighs. Jack never drops weight during the season quite the way Kent does—he’s not quite at his end of summer, Greek God-esque physique, but Kent always comes out of the playoffs feeling hollow and gaunt, like he has to rebuild himself from the ground up before September.

Kent likes the difference between their bodies. He likes being shorter than Jack because he can curl comfortably under the weight of Jack’s arm across his shoulders when they stand next to each other, and he likes that Jack’s body on top of his is enough to hold him down and keep him there if Jack doesn’t want him to move. He likes that Jack has big, strong hands and big, thick fingers.

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. “Sucks.”

“Yeah,” Jack echoes. “Hey, baby. You okay?” Jack shifts his fingers through Kent’s bangs, a little longer than he likes and falling messily across his forehead.

Kent just shrugs. He’s not okay because he’s probably the shittiest captain of all time and he doesn’t know how to tell Jack that he wants him to take the C next year. He’s not okay because he promised, he fucking promised Jack that this would be their year and he just couldn’t fucking get them there. For the first time in his life, though, he has no idea what to say to Jack, so he just says, “You left your phone at home. Your dad called.”

“I’ll call him later,” Jack says absently. His hand is still buried in Kent’s hair, stroking across his scalp with light fingertips. “Kenny.”

“What?” Kent grumps. He really wants to ignore Jack and focus on the episode of Cupcake Wars on the tv, but he’s always been helpless against that nickname and the inexorable pressure of Jack’s fingers in his hair is putting him in this really weird headspace, drifting between pissy and sullen and… absent. Empty. He deflates. “I’m tired.”

“I know, baby,” Jack says, trailing his fingers from Kent’s hair down to his shitty, scraggly playoff beard that he still hasn’t shaved. Jack’s own beard was gone half an hour after they got home, all remnants of it washed down the drain. “Hey, c’mere. Come with me.” Jack stands and laces Kent’s fingers through his own.

“What?” Kent says again, whiny. “Why? I’m right in the middle of my show.” He motions toward the tv.

“We can record it,” Jack promises, which is ridiculous because Kent has absolutely never expressed any interest in fucking Cupcake Wars before but Jack seems perfectly happy to indulge him in this and even hits the record button himself.

“Ugh,” Kent says because he’s a huge baby, but he lets Jack tug him off the couch, sending a pissed off Kit yowling to the floor. Jack leads him to the bathroom with a hand pressed lightly to the curve of his back, body warm and steady behind Kent’s. Kent doesn’t even want to look at his face in the mirror right now, so he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes steadily in and out, listing against Jack some while he runs the water for a shower. Soon, the entire room is flooded with steam, hot and damp, condensing in Kent’s beard.

Jack must deem the temperature acceptable because he withdraws his hand from the shower and kneels in front of Kent, grasping one of his ankles in his long fingers. Kent looks like shit right now in grody sweatpants and one of Jack’s t-shirts that hangs off his shoulders, but Jack undresses him reverently, first peeling off one sock and then the other, sliding his pants and his boxers down his legs and helping him step out of them. He feels silly in his overlarge shirt and nothing else, soft cock peeking out from below the hem, but Jack soon lifts that over his head as well, leaving him naked and hunched in on himself while Jack still has on most of his suit

It might be the first time ever that Kent hasn’t offered to help Jack undress, but his arms hang heavy and useless by his side while Jack efficiently strips out of his clothes. His body is an homage to a brutal postseason, littered with bruises in varying shades of purple, blue, and green. There’s a shallow cut across the top of his cheek and a lingering scar that gently bisects the corner of his lips. He’s very beautiful to Kent, as a hockey player and as someone Kent loves, and he’s very careful as he guides Kent under the spray of hot water, the billow of steam.

“Too hot?” Jack asks. He’s pressed along the length of Kent’s body, soft cock tucked against Kent’s hip, and Kent feels a moment of wanting to rub up against him, to get Jack hard and maybe drop to his knees and suck him off and take his come down his throat, but he doesn’t think that would make him feel any better right now.

“It’s okay,” Kent says, even though Jack does like his showers on just the wrong side of scalding, leaving Kent’s skin feeling raw and new.

“Tilt your head back for me,” Jack murmurs, cupping the back of Kent’s head and taking the weight of it when Kent lets himself be engulfed in the hot torrents of water flowing from Jack’s ridiculously nice showerhead. There’s an arm low on his waist and Jack’s fingers are gripping the base of his skull. “Good,” Jack says softly, like Kent’s done anything other than let himself go boneless in Jack’s arms. “Good. I’m going to wash your hair, okay?”

Kent shrugs and nods, letting his head tip forward until his face is buried against Jack’s throat. Jack has to maneuver a little awkwardly to get the shampoo bottle and flick it open with one hand, but he doesn’t ask Kent to move, or ask him to hold himself up, which is good because he probably couldn’t right now. He squeezes a dollop of shampoo onto the crown of Kent’s head and starts to work it into a lather with one hand, nails scraping against his scalp.

Showers are generally a non-sexual place for them, necessitated by years of being in locker rooms, but Jack’s fingers on his hip, in his hair makes Kent’s dick hard against Jack’s thigh and he becomes aware of Jack’s own cock sliding against his stomach.

“Tilt back,” Jack says again when he’s done, helping Kent duck his head back under the water. The shampoo runs soapy and slick down his spine and over the curve of his ass. “I wanna wash you, baby,” Jack murmurs, “Get you all nice and clean for me. Can you lean against the wall?”

Kent shivers. The tile of the shower wall is cold against his back, but the surface of his skin, the blood pumping beneath is burning hot. Jack falls to his knees in front of him for the second time that morning. “Jesus,” Kent breathes when Jack cradles his foot gently in one palm and rubs a lather of soap all over it, in between his toes. He takes the same care with Kent’s other foot, rinsing them off after so they won’t be slippery with soapy residue. He works his way up Kent’s body, doing the right calf and then the left, scrubbing behind his knees, and digging his fingers into his thighs in an approximation of a massage.

When he gets to Kent’s dick, hard and leaking just a little from the tip, he washes it with the same methodical slowness as he’s done everything else and it isn’t sexual, but it is strangely, headily intimate, letting Jack cup his hard cock and his balls in his palm with no intention of getting him off. Jack’s fingers slip back behind Kent’s balls, sliding against his perineum and slipping into his hole for the barest of seconds, just fingering lightly at the tight clench of it.

Kent’s a mess by the time Jack’s finished rinsing every square inch of him, accommodating and pliant when Jack covers his beard with a thick lather of soap. There’s a disposable razor on the ledge of the shower, and Jack takes it in his long fingers, tilting Kent’s head to the left and running the razor across his cheek in confident strokes. It doesn’t take nearly as long to shave Kent’s beard because it’s thin and patchy and never grows much longer than about half an inch; nothing like Jack’s, whose own comes in full, thick, and unfairly handsome.

“There,” Jack says when he’s done, “There you are.”

*

Jack’s bed is plush and soft, all thick white comforter and cottony white sheets, more pillows than Kent can count. He feels decadent laid out on it, skin still hot from the shower and smooth from the lotion Jack rubbed into it.

He has no clue what Jack’s endgame is here. Kent’s still naked, still hard, and Jack is naked, too, unashamed in the way he kneels over Kent on the bed, cock jutting hard and huge from between his legs. Kent really does like how big Jack is, all the ways that he’s big, how he fills Kent up and how no matter how many fingers he gives him first, it always hurts just a little bit. Jack’s never said anything, but Kent thinks he likes that part, too.

“I wanna fuck you on your back,” Jack tells him matter-of-factly, “But I wanna eat you out on your stomach, first.”

Kent doesn’t even try to stop the moan that pushes its way out of his mouth, circling his hips up against nothing but air and wishing for some pressure, some friction. He moves slow, limbs weighty and chest heavy when he tries to roll over. Jack is sweet with him, arranges him comfortably and slides a big, soft pillow beneath his hips. It angles his ass up just right, chest and stomach flat on the bed, and he lets his legs spread wide on either side of the pillow. Jack hums appreciatively and spreads one of Kent’s cheeks open with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Jack groans, easing just the tip of his thumb inside Kent, dry and thick. Kent can feel it when he shifts to kneel between his legs, spreading his ass open with both hands this time, thumbs edging tantalizingly close to his hole.

“Fu _uuck_ ,” Kent whines. Jack’s not holding him down, but he feels immobilized, open and helpless, Jack’s for the taking.

Jack starts with the flat of his tongue wet and soft against Kent’s hole just how he likes it. It’s—this is _always_ fucking overwhelming, the kind of shit Kent would never do with anyone but Jack, almost scary in how good it feels. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Kent pants when Jack drags his tongue up and down from Kent’s perineum to his hole and back, flexing the tip of it against his rim.  

It’s easy to get caught in his own head like this, to unconsciously rock his hips against the soft cotton of the pillowcase and up into the wet warmth of Jack’s mouth, to lose himself in the filthy wet noises, amplified in the quiet room.

Kent has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out when Jack starts to work his tongue inside and it goes so easily, Kent’s body welcoming him.

“Oh, Kenny,” Jack says harshly, rough, “Look how easy you open up for me.”

“Yeah, Zimms,” Kent agrees, throat thick and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He wants Jack’s tongue back in his ass, but he wants to kiss him too; he doesn’t know what he wants and it makes him draw in a shaky, ragged breath. He just wants Jack inside him, all the way inside, surrounding every inch of him, holding him close and keeping all these scattered pieces of him together.

“Do you want to come like this?” Jack asks, “Do you want my fingers?”

“I—I don’t know, I don’t—,” Kent blinks, feeling hazy like he’s floating outside of his body. “Fingers,” he decides. He loves having Jack’s fingers inside of him and the startling intimacy of it that’s even more intense than having his cock thrusting in in long, slow strokes. “Jack, _please_.”

He hears the soft snick of a bottle of lube being opened and the vaguely dirty sound of Jack pouring some onto his fingers, but he’s still surprised by the first press of Jack’s cold middle finger to his hole.

“Relax,” Jack commands softly, and Kent just—he just _does_ , body accepting Jack’s finger until it’s all the way down to the last knuckle. “That’s it, there you go.”

One finger is nice, and Jack keeps glancing it off his prostate, but Kent is beyond ready for it when he starts tracing Kent’s rim with another, carefully slipping it in. Two makes him feel full and stretched and he has to breathe through it a bit. “Jack,” he moan, just for something to say, just for the weight of Jack’s name on his tongue. Jack grunts and taps against his rim with a third finger. “Yeah, give it to me,” Kent gasps.

“Fucking hell, Parse, I need you to roll over. Wanna see you,” Jack rasps, pulling his fingers out and helping Kent roll onto his back. His cock is pink and wet, leaking steadily now and completely neglected, the way it always is when Jack is focused on his ass like this. Kent tries to settle back with his hips under the pillow but Jack’s not having it, rips the pillow out from beneath him, tosses it on the floor, and tugs Kent up onto his lap. Kent’s looking up at him this way, back still flat on the bed and it’ll be a little bit of a weird angle for his fingers but Kent _knows_ it’s a fucking perfect angle for his cock.

Jack’s not careful when he shoves his fingers into Kent this time, three of them at once hitting his prostate again and again and _again_. Kent wails, overwhelmed by the width of them and the sudden rush of pleasure curling around the base of his spine. The tears that have been gathering in his eyes ever since Jack laid him out on his stomach start to squeeze out of the corners of his eyes. He can feel them slide down his temple and into his hair.

“ _Baby_ ,” Jack says affectionately, thumbing away a few of the tears with his free hand, then using that hand to rub over Kent’s stomach. He feels oddly more exposed this way, belly up and ass high on Jack’s lap, cock hard and lifted, balls resting against his thigh. He’s thankful that Jack doesn’t mind when he cries because he’s not sure he could help it right now. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Kent promises. He’s still a little tight, but it’s always so good like that.

“Yeah, you are,” Jack agrees, sliding his fingers out and coating his cock with lube. The press of his head against Kent’s hole is always intimidating. There’s always a moment where Kent wonders if it’s going to go in, where he’s sure it won’t fit, but Jack is patient with him. He speaks to him gently, rubs his palm over Kent’s belly and never pushes too far. They both feel it the moment Kent’s body opens for him, groaning simultaneously when the head pops inside.

“Oh,” Kent gasps, “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, you’re doing so good, Parse,” Jack says, sliding in a slow, bare inch, “Look how good you’re being for me.”

“Ungh. Big,” Kent whispers. “ _Zimms_.”

“I know, yeah, I know,” Jack says. He’s almost all the way in, now, feeling impossibly long and wide inside him. “Look how good you’re taking me, baby. There it is, Kenny, that’s all of it, you’ve got all of it.”

Kent breathes. He cries a little, sobs hitching in his throat, and Jack runs his thumb up the length of Kent’s cock, cups his balls in one hand, presses against his perineum until the pressure on his prostate is too much and his hole goes all syrupy sweet around Jack, opening right up for his big cock.

Kent can’t speak, can’t do anything but take whatever Jack’s giving him, but he lets the words Jack’s panting sink into his skin, curl pleasurably in the pit of his stomach. “You look so good with my cock in you, Kenny, you look so pretty when you’re taking it. I love how tight you feel around me.”

He can’t imagine how he looks right now, all messed up with sweat and tears and precome, straining not to come and nearly helpless against the onslaught of Jack’s cock and his words. The combination of them is nearly unendurable. “Zimms, I’m gonna—gonna come,” Kent warns, feeling his body start to curl in on itself.

“Yeah, baby, I want you to,” Jack murmurs, thrusting harder and harder still, making Kent take it, forcing the orgasm from him with thorough, sure strokes of his cock, “I want you to.”

Hearing Jack ask for him to come, feeling the inexorable drag of his cock against Kent’s rim—it’s too much, he doesn’t even need a hand on his own dick. Kent comes so hard, so explosively that his eyes roll back and an inelegant, whining groan is ripped from his chest, and his whole body arches with uncontrollable shudders and sobs. It’s easy to go pliant when Jack moans as Kent’s hole ripples around him, relaxed and boneless as Jack pounds into him just a few more times before pulling out and coming in hot, thick spurts, coating Kent’s softening cock and balls and asshole with it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Kent groans when Jack pushes some of it inside him with his big finger. “Oh, hell, Jack.”

He wants to ask what this whole thing was about, where it came from, what Jack was trying to tell him with it, but Jack’s scooting them both up and bed and wrapping Kent up in his arms, palm pressed against Kent’s heart. He wants to ask, but Jack is all body warm and solid behind him and he doesn’t know if he has the words for it.

“Hey,” Jack says eventually, voice rough.

“Hey,” Kent says back, lacing his fingers through Jack’s and holding them over his stomach. He hums, pleased, when Jack kisses the top of his head.

“I just,” Jack starts, sounding a little unsure, “I came here because of you, okay? I came to Vegas for you.”

And _ugh_. The last thing Kent wants to think about, especially after Jack made him forget it so spectacularly, are all the promises he made to Jack that he couldn’t keep. He doesn’t want to think about Jack’s face those waning seconds on the ice, defeated and miserable. He and Jack are good; this is a _good_ fucking thing he has going and he wants it to last as long as possible.

“Jack,” he pleads, “I don’t wanna think about hockey right now.”

“I’m not talking about hockey,” Jack says, tightening his fingers in Kent’s, and Kent gets a feeling that this is something he’s going to want to really listen to. “I’m talking about you.”

“You came to Vegas to win championships with me,” Kent says grumpily, even though his heart is doing this really weird thing in his chest and he’s pretty sure Jack’s saying a lot more than just the words coming out of his mouth.

“I came to Vegas to be with you first,” Jack says so softly, like it isn’t rocking Kent’s world, “And to play hockey with you second. Everything else is just extra.”

Kent’s throat feels tight as he swallows, aching in that way that it does when he’s trying to hold back tears. He’s cried enough today, he thinks. “Fuck you, the Stanley Cup is not fucking _extra_ ,” he sniffs, scrubbing at his face when the tears come anyway.

Jack ignores this. “I love you,” he says, honest and sure, “I came here to be with you.”

“I—,” Kent says and falls silent. He loves Jack with all the ragged nerve-endings in his body, loves him more for all the nights he spent his rookie year lonely and sad and missing him like crazy, loves him through the body aching sureness of knowing that Jack’s his endgame. That there’s nothing certain in his life except _hockey_ and _Jack_.

“I came here for you,” Jack repeats, “No matter what.”

 _No matter what._  

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: possibly slightly undernegotiated, D/s-ish sexual situations. Everything is fully consented to and appreciated by all involved. Kent's feeling a bit of internalized anxiety and Jack comforts him with caregiving and sex. 
> 
> Come hmu on [tumblr](http://runphoebe.tumblr.com) if you'd like to cry about the existence of Kent Parson with me.


End file.
